The Emerald Creep

The green velvet expands in the damp, unhurried by the clock's sharp ticking, a soft insurrection against the stone, drinking the mist through invisible lungs.

It maps the north side of the oak, a compass for the lost and the small, threading through the cracks of history where the mortar has surrendered to the rain.

Beneath the silver birches, it waits, a cushion for the heavy tread of deer, holding the scent of cold earth and decay, turning the old into the new without a sound.

No flowers to boast, no fruit to offer, only this steady, emerald creep, patiently claiming what the light forgets, an empire built on shadows and patience.